


Do You Remember Where the Heart Is?

by Prefiera_de_Gryfalco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 09:49:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prefiera_de_Gryfalco/pseuds/Prefiera_de_Gryfalco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor Clegane's story that picks up several years after being left to die by Arya Stark as he leaves behind the Hound to become his own man.  The realm remains in chaos while the threat of the Others looms. As canon compliant as possible after ADWD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do You Remember Where the Heart Is?

_Two Years Earlier_

The little she-wolf was gone.  Hours ago.  Maybe even a day.

For all her talk of vengeance because of her butcher's boy, she had just left him there delirious and weeping blood from multiple lacerations.  The fever, the loss of blood, dehydration, and the infected wounds had nearly finished him off but the despair at the end of his miserable life was especially crushing.  He was totally alone with no master, no money, and no purpose now that the two Stark girls had gone.  Arya left him a sobbing mess as he contemplated his folly of a life. 

Left to his fate with naught but his horse.  Robbed of his money by the Brotherhood Without Banners and gravely injured by his brother's lackeys.  He had no money, no friends, and no family he did not want to kill on sight.  What was the point of his miserable life?  To be a guard dog or a piece of equipment for battle and nothing more.  He would die here never having never held any lands, never having felt the touch of a willing woman in his bed he did not have to pay, or the sounds of laughter of his own children.  Even when he was in good spirits, he was a morose man by nature and did not attract the attention of friends beyond what was required in his duties.  Skill with a blade was not synonymous with popularity in the Lannister house or in King's Landing.

For a time, his life had meaning beyond being Joffrey's sworn shield.  The daughters of that honorable fool Eddard Stark had given him some sense of purpose, but for opposite reasons. But that purpose was gone swiftly. First his hopes of spiriting the little bird away from the cesspool of King's Landing were gone in the blunder of meeting her drunkenly in her chambers. Those were his lowest and most shameful moments as he understood that a mere low Lannister dog was not a proper escort back north to Lady Sansa Stark. Then fortune seemed to shine again as he came upon the little sister. Plans of getting reward money and joining up with the Young Wolf as his new master seemed to give fresh purpose to the dog without a leash. Perhaps he could serve the brother well and earn a lordship. Maybe even be worthy enough to rescue Sansa from Joffrey's cruel clutches. And surprisingly, the little she-wolf was interesting company, despite her threats to kill him. When her kingly brother and lady mother were slaughtered moments before he could reach them at the Twins, everything came undone. 

He gave up caring if he was recognized, even if it meant capture by his former master's men and his head on a spike for abandoning the folly of the battle of Blackwater. Only wine, and copious amounts of it, could numb the rage and pain in his black soul. The news that Sansa Stark had been foisted on the buggering Imp to be defiled for her titles was the final blow more painful than any battle wound. He was already dead on the inside. The cuts by Gregor's pets were merely a formality to hasten his end.

It would have been a mercy had he been struck dead that instant.  He would bark a mirthless laugh at his situation if he even had the strength.  He slipped in and out of consciousness as the fever burned through him and his breathing became progressively more ragged.  As the black cloud overtook him, he resigned himself to a slow and unpleasant end.

The black stallion whickered at the appearance of the men in robes of brown and dun at the edge of the clearing singing a pleasant hymn.  The horse then stamped his back legs and tossed his head impatiently.  The reins were loose dragging on the ground and the large horse had struggled to graze with his bit still in his mouth without his master's guidance.  One of the robed men tried to take the reins, but Stranger reared and struck at the man.  He backed away from the alarmed animal, but then saw the huge unconscious man streaked with blood and sweat a few paces away and called out to his fellow brothers.

"Brothers, it's a knight.  Elder Brother, come quickly.  He may still be alive."

Sandor Clegane's head swam back into consciousness.  He could do nothing but slowly open his eyes or move anything else besides his parched lips and swollen tongue.

"Not...a...knight," he croaked, barely audible to the small group of brothers of the faith gathering around him.

One of the men who was likely around his fortieth year approached and gave him an appraising look.  His eyes narrowed in concern when he saw the mix of old scars and fresh wounds on his face and leg. He knelt besides the larger man and Sandor moaned in pain as the man supported Sandor's head with one hand and slid the other underneath the breastplate of his armor to feel his heart.  The man frowned as he looked at the mix of blood, grime, and purulent discharge on his hands as withdrew them. 

"His heart beats true enough, but the fever is severe and the wounds fester.  He will not last long without help.  Let us get him some water."

"Wine...I want wine," groaned Sandor.  "Then let me die.  Please.  I am through begging."

"Apologies, ser, but our order does not partake in wine or spirits. The wounds are grievous, but all may not be lost." he said as he produced a skin of spring water and slowly trickled it over Sandor's mouth.

Sandor wanted to respond in kind with his usual snarl in retort to being called "ser," but instead merely managed to splutter and cough half the water down his scraggly chin.  He had all but given up his miserable wasted life, but within a few seconds of tasting the water, some tiny spark at the core of his being eagerly tried to swallow and compelled him to live.

"Easy now, my friend.  Help me sit him up.  Gently, gently.  He is likely in a great deal of pain.  What is your name?"

Sandor grunted with effort and merely pointed at his snarling dog's head helm laying a number of feet away.

"He is the Hound!" gasped a proctor whose day it was to speak.  "I saw him once on a sojourn to plead for an audience with the Hand in King's Landing.  Elder Brother, is this wise?  Should we not let him pass in peace?  It would be a mercy, as he is a dangerous man."

"Ah, so he is.  Sandor Clegane, your reputation precedes you."  Elder Brother's thoughtful eyes gazed on the face of the ferocious Hound.  Sweat beaded up on the pale, clammy skin and the gray eyes flashed with delirium.  The scarred left side twitched spasmodically with pain.  He turned to another brother.  "I have no milk of the poppy with me, but the forest can provide much.  Brother, find the bark of the willow tree and help me make a decoction. We will stop here for a few hours before going back."  

While the willow bark tea was steeping, Elder Brother gave Sandor some more water and forced him to eat small pieces of moldy blue cheese from his pack. He wanted to retch, but managed to keep them down along with the bitter tea as Elder Brother said they would help with the pain, fever, and infection. He was too weak to argue and did as he was bid. 

Within an hour, he was slightly less painful without the visions and strange dreams he was used to when given milk of the poppy. He could speak more easily again, though he was still reeling from the fever.

Sandor was also in too poor of shape to sit his horse and he was too large to carry in a stretcher over a number of miles. The other brothers brought up a pack mule and worked on fashioning a travois to pull him with. Two of the largest men who were still nearly half a head shorter than Sandor carried him to the travois, gritting his teeth in pain the whole way. They eased him down with a sharp grimace. Elder Brother knelt by his side and spoke quietly.

"Sandor, it seems you would prefer to die, but I do not believe the gods are done with you yet. We may take you back so you might recover, but you bring a great sense of evil with you. The other brothers are questioning why I would do this. Our order serves the Seven and offers refuge to those who would seek it. For this reason, we do not bring the chaos and turmoil of the Seven Kingdoms into our island sanctuary as to not disrupt the penitent men on their journey.

"However, I was once a knight and I too was gravely injured and left for dead. The Warrior surely was watching over me when I washed up naked as my name day on the Quiet Isle. I think he must be doing the same for you. Sandor Clegane is welcome to come, but the Hound must stay here. For good."

Sandor was silent for a time and then cleared his throat.

"Elder Brother, bugger the gods. I wish they had the guts to finish me if they are going to finish me, if they even exist. But I what choice do I have? I have nothing to live for, but I go right on living."

"Perhaps, but we can offer a way that you have not done so before. Service to a greater good instead of just a means to buy drink to make the pain stay at bay for a few hours," said Elder Brother knowingly. "This is a chance to leave the angry dog behind and become a free man. Your own man."

He again did not say anything for several long moments while he contemplated the older man's words.

"Aye, my own man." nodded Sandor with finality. 

The pain as the travois was dragged along was severe, but pain sometimes brought new perspective. As the travois lurched away, he saw the scorched dog's head helm still laying beneath the tree, the blackened mouth snarling at no one.

**Author's Note:**

> As a skilled healer, Elder Brother would hopefully know that willow bark contains a substance like aspirin and the moldy blue cheese would hopefully have a bit of the Penicillium fungus in it, the very same that makes penicillin for infected wounds. 
> 
> I'm looking for a beta for this work. Nothing too arduous, just a grammar/spelling/fact checker. Please let me know in the comments if you are interested. I can likewise beta for your works as well.


End file.
